


Touched

by artisan447



Category: Magnificent Seven (TV)
Genre: Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-09-05
Updated: 2009-09-05
Packaged: 2017-10-02 16:16:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/artisan447/pseuds/artisan447
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is mostly for <a href="http://sallymn.dreamwidth.org/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://sallymn.dreamwidth.org/"><b>sallymn</b></a>, who is sick and asked for "Ezra has a cold and looses his voice". Also for the cliche bingo prompt "injury" (which yes, I'm making into "illness"). Also for everyone else (pretty much all of you ;) who asked for Vin/Ezra.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Touched

**Author's Note:**

> This is mostly for [](http://sallymn.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**sallymn**](http://sallymn.dreamwidth.org/), who is sick and asked for "Ezra has a cold and looses his voice". Also for the cliche bingo prompt "injury" (which yes, I'm making into "illness"). Also for everyone else (pretty much all of you ;) who asked for Vin/Ezra.

There's light when he wakes, but he's slept heavily enough to have no sense of the passage of time. Through blurry eyes he can pick out the rectangular shape of the window behind the heavy drapes, but that's not much help -- the days are long this time of year so it could as easily be evening as morning.

He can't even recognize familiar sounds beyond the bedroom's walls, even though he does his best to stir his senses into action. Nothing; the house is silent and the glowing 8:15 on the bedside clock might as well be the combination to his safe for all the clues it gives.

It's disorienting.

_Three days, no four,_ he thinks, resting an arm over his eyes. His head is clearer than it's been, but his thoughts are still muddled.

He's had 'flu before, but never like this -- days on end where every movement triggered an aching misery, and he couldn't have cared if he lived or died. In fact, he probably would have paid someone to put a permanent end to his woe, if he could have only found the energy to organise the transaction.

Nevertheless, he seems to have survived; it's even possible he's getting better. His skin is only normally warm, though it still feels as though he hasn't washed for a week (he hasn't), and the chills and fever that knocked him flat have gone. As have the bone-deep, aches and pains that left him curled in a miserable, pathetic ball incapable of doing anything for himself.

_At least the sheets are clean,_ he thinks, grateful, stretching. As are his pyjamas. He remembers his own pitiful attempts to help when the latter were changed and the memory is embarrassing enough to prod him into action. He's never been good at giving up control, and the experience of being dependent for something as basic as personal hygiene makes him squirm.

He rolls carefully onto his side, waiting for his muscles to protest, but there are no dire consequences. So after a minute's thought he pushes upright.

It's not one of his better ideas.

His body seems to have forgotten how to deal with even the most minor change in position and he's instantly shaky and lightheaded. Elbows on knees, he rests his head in his hands while it, and his heart, pound double-time. He'd groan if could only summon the energy and he's peripherally grateful, after all, for the silence and the way the heavy curtains block out the light.

It takes a while for his body to finally sort itself out and the dizziness to recede, but when it does he realises that he's surprisingly hungry. His mouth is as stale as a well-trod casino carpet, but his stomach is vigorously making its emptiness known. It's a long while since he's even thought about trying solid food, so that's a surprise, but he figures he's up for the challenge -- unless someone has magically rearranged the house while he's been out of his mind, the kitchen isn't all that far away.

He gets to his feet, taking two quick steps forward so he can grab onto the dresser. He's weak as a kitten and black spots dance before his eyes but it only has the effect of hardening his resolve; he'll be damned if he'll swoon like a Victorian damsel in his own bedroom and there's ice-cream in the freezer, he's sure of it.

A cough tries to bubble its way up out of his chest and he clamps down on it hard; the rough and painful burn of throat muscles tightening sufficient to stop the air in his lungs. That's one thing that hasn't changed; his throat still feels like it's on fire, sharp daggers stabbing the tender flesh at every swallow. It's obvious, to him at least, that whoever designed the human body's tonsils and glands never imagined the brutal effects of streptococcal infection.

Ice-cream is sounding better by the minute.

He's braced in the doorway, gripping the frame with both hands, when the back door bangs shut. Before he can even process what that means, Vin's in front of him, smelling of fresh air and sunshine and positively glowing with good health.

In comparison to the way he feels it's infuriating, and he scowls and opens his mouth to---

"Uh, uh, Ezra." Vin shakes his head and reaches forward to lay a finger against his lips. "Laryngitis, remember, no talking."

Irritation rising he swats the hand away, but before he can do anything at all, Vin has both hands on his shoulders, examining him critically. He hasn't the strength to object in the face of concern so openly displayed.

"Well, at least you're upright, even if you do look like something the cat dragged in. What're you doing out of bed, anyway?"

He rolls his eyes and drags a finger across his throat, miming his imminent demise; isn't it obvious he's starving to death?

Apparently it is; Vin's grin lights up his face and he pats one of Ezra's shoulders.

"You're hungry? Well it's about damned time, was starting to wonder if you'd ever eat again."

Ezra closes his eyes in a slow, put-upon blink, refusing to acknowledge the number of times over the last few days he'd rejected every offer of sustenance, then raises one eyebrow toward the kitchen.

Vin's pretty smile slides quickly into a frown. "I don't think so. No talking, no getting out of bed. Nathan was pretty clear about that."

He starts to steer them back toward the bed and Ezra's taken two steps before he realises (it's possible he's still a little mesmerised by the way Vin's face and eyes softened as his mouth curved) but now the intent is clear he has no intention of yielding. He plants a hand firmly in Vin's chest and shakes his head once. He needs ice-cream, damn it, and he'll not be treated like an invalid.

Vin's eyebrows shoot up. "Oh, you're definitely on the mend," he drawls, and there's that pretty smile again.

Ezra blinks, distracted. He could get well on that smile, if he could just stare at it a little longer, it's bright and warming and radiates a sense of well-being (and okay, maybe he is still delirious...). He pulls himself together and waves one hand in an impatient gesture. He's made up his mind and if Vin won't help him to the kitchen, then he'll get there himself. He's a grown man, damn it.

"Ok," Vin says. He must see the purpose in Ezra's eyes, because he puts his hands up in a defensive gesture. "But you're whiter'n Mrs Potter's apron, so come sit on the sofa. That way, if you fall over, it'll at least be on something soft."

Ezra rolls his eyes and considers the offer. The sofa is half way to the kitchen so it's headed in the right direction and Vin's right, it is soft. He removes his hand from Vin's chest and sweeps it toward the corridor in a "lead on" gesture, signalling agreement. Strangely, he doesn't feel the need to object when Vin's arm comes around his shoulders for support.

True to his word, Vin hands over a bowl heaped with ice-cream once Ezra's settled on the sofa, and the first spoonful slides down his throat like the most amazing ambrosia. It's so delicious he can hardly believe it -- soft, and cold (so cold), he wishes he could hold it inside his throat like an ice-pack against the painful spots. He takes his time, savouring every mouthful, and when Vin finally takes the empty bowl away it's like losing a friend.

He settles back, content, surprised to find he's surrounded by pillows and the afghan blanket Nettie made. When did that happen?

Vin slides in behind him at the end of the couch and tugs him in close against his chest; Ezra rolls into the familiar position without protest.

"Vin." It's a mere whisper of movement, a gentle puff of air against the other man's throat, but the arms around him tighten and he knows Vin gets his meaning.

"No talkin', Ez," Vin murmurs quietly, and Ezra feels the slight pressure of a gentle kiss against his hair.

He gives up the pretence of being fine and lets heavy eyelids fall closed, and when he slides into an easy sleep it's with the ghost of Vin's touch working its way deep into his heart.

 

\---the end---


End file.
